


jezebel

by Setkia



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crowley Gets Abused by Clients, Crowley Sleeps with Other People Cause He's a Prostitute, Demisexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dubious Consent with Crowley's Clients, Enthusiastic Consent with Aziraphale, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:48:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21707737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Setkia/pseuds/Setkia
Summary: Anthony J Crowley is not made for God’s love, or anyone’s for that matter. At twenty-three the closest thing he’s got to a home is a favourite street corner. A failure in all regards but one, Crowley uses the only skill at his disposal to make a living: his body. It’s not that bad being damned; he’s gotten used to it.Aziraphale Lacroix owns a library disguised as a bookshop, and may be a hedonist when it comes to cuisine (Oscar Wilde would approve). One night he spots a certain redhead loitering in the cold, and offers him a place to stay.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 66
Kudos: 126





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ... I was waiting for the metro and my brain just ... did a thing. Anyway, I'm very enthusiastic about this story so I hope you guys like it. There are some tough themes in here, but I'll mention them in the author notes when they come up, with further explanations in the end notes:
> 
> THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS:  
> Prostitute Crowley  
> Consent issues

Aziraphale is sipping a steaming cup of coco when he spots him.

A man is leaning against the building across the street, legs crossed over each other, cigarette in hand. It’s not quite winter yet, but it’s chilly enough that some of the puffs of smoke are clearly from the man’s own lungs and not his nicotine. To make matters worse, he’s dressed for an entirely different climate, and is donning _sunglasses_ of all things.

The light haired man doesn’t take time to think before he’s slipping into his trusty coat, and grabbing a spare, wrapping a scarf around his neck hastily and shoving a cap on before he’s out the door and running as fast as he can towards the man.

“Excuse me!”

The redhead turns at the sound of his voice. He’s in the middle of a long drag from his cigarette. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch when the biting wind picks up.

“Excuse me, but would you do me a favour?”

The man’s head doesn’t move, but Aziraphale senses that behind his dark glasses, he’s scanning him. He flicks his cigarette onto the ground and stomps it out with his foot.

“That’s littering—”

“What are you in the mood for?”

“Pardon?”

The man smirks. “You don’t seem like my usual, but I’m always willing to try something once.” He pushes off the wall, and— well, Aziraphale has no way to describe the movement of his legs other than calling it a _saunter._ “Some ground rules—”

He stops abruptly when Aziraphale thrusts the coat him. The poor man’s fingers are blue, and though he is acting composed, his teeth are chattering ever so subtly. He’s at risk for hypothermia dressed the way he is and he won’t have that on his conscience.

“May we continue this conversation inside?”

The man stares at the coat. “You … want me to wear that?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

“If I wouldn’t mind,” he echoes. He leans forward, teetering on his feet. “I don’t change my rates, you know.”

Aziraphale has no idea what the man is going on about, but he does slip the coat on, and follows him to his bookshop.

The warmth of the interior sweeps over the two of them and Aziraphale lets out a pleased hum.

“Please, take a seat.”

“You’re more demanding than you look,” the man pipes. “S’all good, I like people who know what they want.”

The redhead takes a seat before the fire and Aziraphale hands him his cup of coco. He begins to shed the coat, when Aziraphale puts up a hand to stop him.

“Keep it. For now.”

The man stops his movements. Though it is warm inside the shop, it wouldn’t surprise Aziraphale to know there is a chill in the man’s bones. The thin jacket he’s wearing is more of a fashion statement and does little to protect him from the cold.

Aziraphale takes a seat in the large chair near his couch and takes a good look at the man.

He’s glad he intervened when he did.

His pants are tight, painted onto the man’s legs, and the loose tie around his neck is skinny and done in a poor imitation of a Windsor. His hands shake as he hovers them above the coco, trying not-so-subtly to regain some warmth. He’s looking at Aziraphale with curiosity, his eyebrows raised. Those dreaded sunglasses tell him nothing. His cheekbones are defined, but it may be because his face is shallow, and his body … Aziraphale understands that society’s beauty standards are more demanding these days, but he’s as skinny as a toothpick, to the point of fragility. A good wind could knock him over.

The man doesn’t speak, merely sits by the fire, and waits as Aziraphale reads _The Picture of Dorian Grey_ for the sixteenth time this year.

The silence is oddly companionable.

He looks up when he hears the now empty coco mug settle on the table.

“Better now?”

The man gives him an inquisitive look. “Much.” It sounds distant.

“Well, now that you’ve settled in—”

“I’m on it.”

“Wha— oh my!”

The man has made his way over to Aziraphale, shedding his coat on the couch and dropping to his knees. He crawls, practically on bony sticks which lack calcium, over to the foot of Aziraphale’s chair and reach for his waist. The light haired man just has enough time to put his book away before he realizes what’s happening and pushes the man away.

The stranger is not deterred.

“Don’t be like that. I won’t have any debts on my head—”

“No!”

The man instantly recoils, his fingers releasing Aziraphale’s clothes. He sits back on his knees and tilts his head. “No?”

“I said no.”

“I heard you.” The man takes a seat on the table in front of the fire place and crosses his legs. They’re long, and beautiful, no doubt, but Aziraphale doesn’t feel much of a pull towards him like the man seems to want. There’s no swoop in his stomach, or curl in his groin that makes him want to reach out for the man. Aesthetically, the man is beautiful, but he can’t make himself act on anything.

“What do you want?”

“Who says I want anything?”

The man lets out a bark of a laugh. It’s hollow. “We both know that’s not true. Everyone wants _something_. So? What is it?”

“I truly want nothing.”

The man scoffs. He smells of cigarettes and ash, of a bonfire and pine trees. He’s still trembling. “There’s no such thing as a selfless act. I don’t do cuddles, or aftercare, if that’s what you’re after.”

Aziraphale blinks.

 _Oh_.

“You’re … you’re an escort.”

The man laughs. It’s bitter. “If that’s what helps you sleep at night, sure. I’m an _escort_. So, what do you want from me?”

Oh, this is embarrassing.

“I didn’t …. well, the thing is, I didn’t exactly … I wasn’t aware …?”

The redhead frowns. “Excuse me?”

“I hadn’t known you … that you … offered … services?”

He’s heating up, red underneath his collar. He just wants to rewind time back to when he was reading about Dorian Grey and the hedonistic lifestyle of the Victorian gentleman.

The man looks at him strangely, leaning closer, just a little too close for his personal tastes. “You _really_ had no clue, did you?”

“No.”

“So I’m supposed to believe you did a good act out of the kindness of your soul? That’s bullshit, and we both know it. No act is selfless, even one that _appears_ selfless. You’re doing it for self-gratification, for the nice feeling you get knowing you helped a charity case.”

“I am not!”

The man leans back on the table, swinging his legs on the rug. “Sure you’re not.”

Aziraphale can tell he isn’t going to get anywhere with this approach. “Okay, fine. I want something.”

“Knew it.”

“Hush you. I want …”

His mind races, trying to come up with a way to help the man who so clearly rejects such a thing.

“I want you to stay.”

The man looks taken aback. More surprised than when Aziraphale refused his … _services_. “You don’t even know me.”

“I’m Aziraphale Lacroix. There, an easy fix to an easy problem.” He would hold out his hand, but he doubts the man is into that sort of thing.

“Aziraphale,” the man repeats, testing the name out on his tongue. “Odd name.”

“Yes, well…”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it.” The man slides off the table and lays in front of the fire, not unlike a cat bathes in the sun. “Just said it was odd. I’m sure you get that a lot though.”

“And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“The polite thing to do when someone introduces themselves is to introduce yourself in turn.”

The man’s jaw tenses. “I’m not polite.”

“I never said you were.”

Aziraphale senses the man is on the defensive. He can hardly blame him, given the lifestyle he leads. There’s something about his posture, all coiled up, but ready to strike at any moment that reminds the light haired man of a snake.

“You can call me whatever you’d like.”

Aziraphale frowns. “That’s not what I asked.”

There’s silence.

“Crowley. You can call me Crowley.”

The bookshop owner doesn’t know if that’s his real name. It wouldn’t surprise him to know it’s a pseudonym. Regardless, there’s something about the way he says the r, the comfort with which the name settles in his mind. He looks like a Crowley. It suits him.

Aziraphale smiles. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Crowley.”

The man’s ears turn pink. “Whatever. I’m still not staying.”

“But I insist.”

“Just because you insist doesn’t mean I’ve got to oblige you. There’s hardly enough space here for me anyway.”

“My flat is upstairs,” Aziraphale offers. “It’s small, but it’s comfortable. There’s heat.”

Crowley quirks an eyebrow at him and leers. “I could be a murderer.”

“So could I.”

“Ha!” Crowley laughs.

It’s different. There’s something _honest_ about it. The way his head leans back, exposing his bony neck. His sharp angles seem to soften in the firelight as the abrupt chuckle erupts from his throat. It’s quick, sharp, and feels … nice. Disjointed, but pleasant.

Crowley coughs, and looks down at the oriental carpet. He plays with the tassels and clears his throat. “I don’t think you could do a bad thing, even if you wanted to. You’ve probably never even killed a fly before.”

“The point still stands, you asked me what I wanted. I want you to stay.”

“Why?”

There’s no malice, no teasing in his voice. It almost sounds … vulnerable.

“Because …”

_Because it’s cold outside. Because no one has shown you kindness in a long, long time. Because it’ll start snowing soon, and you look like a skeleton. Because you look as though you are living a life of punishment and despair. Because I think you need this._

Instead, he goes with the most truthful answer.

“Because I’m lonely.”

Crowley uncoils from his position on the carpet. He lowers his sunglasses and Aziraphale sees his eyes for the first time.

They’re an amber colour, almost yellow in the firelight.

They’re beautiful.

“Everyone is lonely, angel.”

Aziraphale swallows a lump in his throat. “Yes, well. You asked what I wanted.”

There’s silence.

Aziraphale feels tense, uncomfortable. Vulnerable in a way he’s never imagined before. He’s about to tell the redhead to forget it, that he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, maybe give him a coat and send him on his way when—

“I’m not … I’m not awfully good company.”

“I’d prefer to be the judge of that.”

Crowley nods sharply and pushes his sunglasses back up his nose. Aziraphale wishes he wouldn’t. He takes the way Crowley curls up once more in front of the fireplace as acquiescence.

“I’ll sleep on the couch. Shouldn’t take up that much room, that way.”

Aziraphale looks at the skinny man. He doubts he takes up much room at all.

“You’re a guest.”

“And you’re an idiot who demanded I stay. Are you full of regret yet?”

“You can take my bed. I rarely sleep in it.”

Crowley looks up at him from his position on the floor. “You fall asleep in your chair with a book on your face, don’t you?”

Aziraphale’s cheeks redden, but he says nothing.

“Up you get. It’ll be warmer in the bed anyway.”

The man gets off the floor, hissing slightly as he’s forced to leave the immediate heat of the hearth. He grumbles the entire way as Aziraphale guides him into his flat above the bookshop, and offers his room to him.

“Sorry it’s a bit of a mess,” Aziraphale says, turning on the light to his bedroom. There are stacks of books everywhere, and the bed is unmade. The last time he slept it in must have been last Tuesday. “I wasn’t exactly … expecting anyone over.”

Crowley saunters into the space, looking out of place given the dulled tones and cozy aesthetic of his room. He kicks off his shoes, but places them neatly next to the bed, then tilts his head at Aziraphale.

“Are you sure you don’t want … something?”

Aziraphale nods. Then shakes his head. “Yes, I’m sure I don’t want anything.”

Crowley lies back, and spreads his legs on the bed. It’s surprising how much he can move in the confining jeans he’s wearing. “Definitely sure?” He crawls towards Aziraphale and grabs his tie playing with it. “I don’t mind. You’re … soft. It’s a nice change of pace.”

Aziraphale frowns.

“I’m not interested in having intercourse with you.”

“Not even if I use a condom? Or just my mouth?” the man purrs. There’s something wrong about this, the silken tone his voice has taken on. It sounds fake, full of false flattery. “Let me repay you for your kindness. Tempt you into a little … _fun_.”

“I have plenty of fun on my own, thank you very much.” The light haired man reddens. “Reading, I mean. Not … I don’t … well, I do, but not often. It’s not …”

Crowley tilts his head. “Are you a virgin?”

“That is none of your business.”

“So that’s a yes then.” Crowley wraps an arm around Aziraphale’s neck, adjusting his collar. His fingers are still cold. “I can fix that, if you’d like.”

“I would not like that.” He feels uncomfortable more than aroused, which he’s sure is Crowley’s intention. He pushes gently at the redhead’s chest, and he responds by letting himself fall back down onto the bed. He doesn’t move from his position. “I wish to make something very clear, Crowley.”

“Hmm?”

“When I said I am lonely, I did not mean in a sexual manner. I have no intention of copulating with you. I do not want such services from you. What I want from this … arrangement, is company. _Platonic_ company. A … a friend.”

“Friend …” Crowley says the word like it’s foreign. “No sex?”

“No.”

Crowley nods. “This’ll go down like a lead balloon, but sure. We’ll do it your way.”

“Please rest.”

“If that’s what you want.”

“It is.”

“Then I live to please,” Crowley drawls sarcastically.

Aziraphale makes his way back down to the back room of his shop and lets out a deep breath.

What is he doing?

There’s a strange man sleeping in his bed who has tried to seduce him _twice_ tonight.

Aziraphale does not take in strays. He lives things well enough alone. This is … strange for him. The level to which he is offering a helping hand to the man is beyond what he would normally, and he’s not sure why he’s done what he has.

He was being truthful earlier.

He _is_ lonely.

And though he doesn’t know Crowley, he feels as though he could. There’s something … familiar, about him. A pull that has only ever existed between Aziraphale and a captivating summary on the back of a book. The redhead asleep on his sheets is a mystery, one which Aziraphale often reads for the fun of solving it before the detective.

Those eyes of his … those amber, yellow eyes, they haunt him.

Crowley is lonely too.

In those eyes of his, Aziraphale saw himself reflected. All his broken pieces.

It’s been a long day.

He falls asleep in his chair, reading _Paradise Lost_ , and dreams of a garden and an apple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prostitute Crowley: Yeah, in this story Crowley is a prostitute, and he's working. This means he makes several moves on Aziraphale, and pushes a bit more than he should.  
> Consent Issues: This goes both ways: Crowley is forcing himself to come onto Aziraphale because he wants the money, and Aziraphale feels uncomfortable with Crowley invading his space. Crowley does stop when he's told to, but he makes a second attempt at seducing Aziraphale which the bookshop owner also rejects. After that, he puts it to rest.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I'm so glad about the reaction to this fic that I got super excited when writing it .... And ended up with a chapter ready faster than I thought. Heh. I respond to all comments, it just takes me a while.
> 
> WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS (further explanation in end notes)  
> Prostitute Crowley  
> Under negotiated kink

_There’s something wrong with this man._

Aziraphale Lacroix is too damn trusting.

The light haired man is sleeping in his chair beside the fireplace, a book rising and falling on his chest with each inhale and exhale.

Crowley can kill him if he wants. Bludgeon him to death with a massive volume, or burn the entire place to the ground. Steal all his possessions if he wishes.

He doesn’t.

Thing is, he’s not entirely convinced he’s not still dreaming.

Maybe the last client had knocked him unconscious and this is all a very elaborate hallucination. It would certainly explain the name. What kind of parent names their child _Aziraphale_?

His body still aches from yesterday, and though he tries to make himself presentable, he’s not sure how successful he is. He sees his own reflection in a mirror nearby the desk and plays with his hair. It’s getting just the slightest bit long. Some people prefer him to wear his hair longer, helps them when they feel bad about cheating on their wives with a man, but he always finds it a hassle to take care of, especially since he never knows when he can wash it.

Ruffling his hair, Crowley inspects himself.

There are some bruises on his neck, some marks on his collarbone if he pulls at his collar a bit. He can _feel_ the bruises on his ankles, senses the cut that hasn’t quite healed from a run-in a few weeks ago. He can’t afford makeup, can’t make himself look any younger than he is, but he may be able to solve the hair problem.

He’s careful to touch anything, sure that if he presses too hard his hand will pass through this strange hallucination. With a type of caution he reserves for only a handful of clients, Crowley pulls at a drawer in the oak desk.

Inside there are bookmarks, several quills and ink bottles. No scissors.

Crowley carefully walks up to the apartment, which he can see much clearer in the daylight. The sun soaks in through the grandmotherly curtains. The colour tone is … beige? Taupe? Something fancy and posh that Crowley doubts his plebeian eyes are meant to see.

He goes into the kitchen area and finds a set of knives in a wooden holding case and grabs one. He could just cut it over the sink, let the red hairs swirl down the drain, but it feels rude. Wrong to do it to a man who is offering him shelter.

He finds a towel that hangs over the oven handle, and makes his way down to the back room of the bookshop and lays the towel on the desk in front of the mirror. He carefully examines how much he wants to cut, before he grabs a fistful of hair and slices.

The hair falls onto the towel.

The good news is, he didn’t nick himself.

The bad news is, it’s probably uneven. And there’s more to go,—

“Crowley!”

Crowley freezes, knife in hand, ready to go again.

He can see himself in the mirror, his panicked look. He shields it quickly.

“Hmm?”

Aziraphale is next to him in a moment, reaching out with delicate hands. He carefully pulls the knife from Crowley’s hands and places it on the table.

“I do have scissors,” the light haired man says. “If you wanted a haircut, you could’ve woken me up.”

_But you were sleeping peacefully, and I know what it’s like to have insomnia. It’s not your job to look after me. I don’t deserve your kindness. You’re not real, you’re just a fucked up illusion my mind has made so that I keep remembering to breathe._

Crowley doesn’t say anything.

“C’mon, I’ll wash your hair in the kitchen sink and cut your hair for you.”

Numbly, Crowley follows the crazy man who touches him gently, and without ulterior motives. It’s been a long time since someone has touched Crowley without wanting something in return.

Aziraphale yawns ever so slightly as he takes scissors out of a drawer from the kitchen, and sets out a few towels. He places a towel on the edge of the sink, and takes out a chair. Crowley stands numbly as Aziraphale retrieves shampoo and conditioner, and then returns.

“Would you like to sit, or stand?”

Crowley is not used to being asked what _he_ wants.

“Erm …”

“I’ll put a chair here so you can sit if you feel tired, alright?”

Crowley nods, his throat dry.

“Those glasses are going to have to come off.”

The redhead jumps just a little, and quickly takes off his shades. He keeps them on most of the time because it’s easier to hide his lack of interest when no one can see. It’s also a great way to hide puffy eyes, or wetness.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I want to,” Aziraphale assures him with a tone that sounds so sincere, it _hurts_. “Unless you don’t want me to?”

“It’s okay.” The words are coming out of him automatically, like he’s outside of his own body. This entire situation is so foreign and strange to him, he’s not sure it’s real. Crowley leans his head over the sink, waiting, eyes shut tightly.

“I’m going to turn on the water, okay?”

“Okay.”

It’s hot at the beginning, but the light haired man adjusts the temperature until it’s just a tad over lukewarm.

“I’m going to touch your hair now, okay?”

“Mhmm.”

“I need a yes or no, Crowley.”

“Yes.”

Aziraphale’s fingers sink into Crowley’s hair, and he begins to wash it. The shampoo slips between his fingers, and his scalp is massaged with delicate movements. The redhead shuts his eyes, his grip on the sink tightening until his knuckles are white.

He lets out an involuntary whine as Aziraphale pulls at his hair to spread the shampoo. The moment the sound leaves him, the older man freezes.

“Did I hurt you, my dear?”

Crowley nearly chokes.

_My dear._

He’s never been dear to anyone.

“No,” he croaks. He sounds _wrecked_ even to his own ears. Worse than when he’s fucked without preparation. The entire experience is surreal, and he makes sure to bite his lip whenever Aziraphale pulls at his hair so the man doesn’t stop.

When it’s finished, Aziraphale turns off the tap and wraps the towel around Crowley’s head.

The redhead reaches up to towel-dry his hair, but freezes when he feels the other man’s wrist. His arms drop limply to his side as Aziraphale ruffles his hair in the towel, humming something under his breath. He asks every now and then if Crowley is fine.

The younger man can only mumble his reply.

Finally, Aziraphale puts the towel away, and moves to the bathroom. “Come with me, Crowley.”

Crowley does.

“You can sit on the toilet seat, or on the bathtub, if you’d like.”

Crowley straddles the bathtub. “You … you sure this isn’t a bother?”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “I like taking care of others.”

_You’re good at it._

Crowley hums in response.

Aziraphale touches him gently. Like he’s delicate. Like he’s fragile.

He feels oddly pampered.

As Aziraphale carefully cuts his hair, Crowley closes his eyes.

This is definitely a dream. He’ll enjoy it while it lasts.

  
Crowley is laying on the rug, running his fingers through his hair distractedly.

The man’s guard that had been up before seems to have fallen down as he lounges somewhat comfortably in front of the fire. He’s humming.

“What is that?”

“Hmm?”

“That song.”

“Oh, was I bothering you?”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “No. I was just curious.”

“It’s Queen.”

“Queen?”

Crowley stares at him through his sunglasses. “You _don’t know Queen_?”

“Erm, not terribly. Aside from the one at Buckingham Palace. Everyone knows that one.”

Crowley shakes his head. “Do you listen to music at _all_?”

“I don’t keep up with the new bebop, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Bebop?” The ginger’s eyebrow raises far too high up his face. “ _Bebop?_ ” He laughs. It’s abrupt, still, but not harsh. It sounds … unpracticed. “You _did not_ just call Queen ‘bebop’. I’m going to pretend that never happened. Tell me you know David Bowie?”

“Erm …”

“Prince?”

“You wouldn’t be talking about William, would you?”

Crowley’s legs kick up as he sits up straight up. “Somebody help you, you’ve got shit taste in things. I could tell you what I was humming, but I doubt you’d know it.”

“Try me.”

Crowley hums. “Alright, I _suppose_.” He taps his finger against Aziraphale’s coffee table, his long, delicate fingers producing a steady beat.

“ _I see a little silhouetto of a man,_

_Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the Fandango?”_

None of the words make much sense to Aziraphale, but Crowley certainly seems into it. His head is rising up and down with each dramatic shift in the pitch.

_“_ _Thunderbolt and lightning,_

_Very, very frightening me!”_

Aziraphale has to hold in a laugh as the ginger makes a very aggressive face at the word “frightening”.

“ _(Galileo) Galileo._

_(Galileo) Galileo,_

_Galileo Figaro_

_Magnifico-o-o-o-o.”_

His tone goes high, then low, and it feels like it’s meant to go back and forth, with numerous people singing, but Crowley throws his voice and does a fine job without the accompaniment.

“ _I'm just a poor boy, nobody loves me._

_He's just a poor boy from a poor family,_

_Spare him his life from this monstrosity._

_Easy come, easy go, will you let me go?”_

As he keeps going, his hands begin to move in dramatic gestures. He looks absolutely ridiculous as he tosses his head back and belts out notes that seem to be too high for his actual range.

“ _Bismillah! No, we will not let you go. (Let him go!)_

_Bismillah! We will not let you go. (Let him go!)_

_Bismillah! We will not let you go. (Let me go!)_

_Will not let you go. (Let me go!)_

_Never let you go (Never, never, never, never let me go)!”_

Aziraphale can’t stop himself, he’s holding his stomach and laughing, the wind getting knocked out of him as Crowley makes stern faces with each change in the words. He’s being overdramatic, theatrical.

_“_ _Oh oh oh oh_

_No, no, no, no, no, no, no!”_

_Oh, mama mia, mama mia (Mama mia, let me go.)_

_Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me, for me, for me!”_

When he’s finished, the fire crackles in the silence, interrupted only by his heavy breathing.

“Bravo!”

Crowley bows, sweat on his forehead. His shades fall onto the rug so that when his head raises, his eyes are visible. Amber, golden in the firelight. He’s smiling. Truly, honestly smiling.

Something curls in the pit of Aziraphale’s stomach.

Crowley coughs, and puts his sunglasses back on. “So yeah … you get the point.” He’s suddenly sheepish, and curling into himself, his ears turning pink. The light haired man wants to gently pull his glasses off, just to see his eyes glow in the firelight again, but holds himself back.

Allowing Crowley to stay was an impulse decision, but so far it is shaping up to be the best thing Aziraphale has ever done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prostitute Crowley: He examines himself in a mirror and remarks physical bruises and blemishes that are left on him from a past customer. Furthermore, he is sore.  
> Under negotiated kink: Crowley low-key gets turned on when Aziraphale pulls at his hair and calls him dear. It's an unexpected reaction for him, and it's not really in a sexual situation. Aziraphale is just being really soft with him, and Crowley doesn't know how to deal with it. It's not graphic, just lightly hinted at.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS:  
> Prostitute Crowley (minor)

Two weeks later, the dream has not ended.

Crowley’s built a very careful routine that involves avoiding the older man as much as possible. This usually takes the form of staying locked away inside the bedroom until Aziraphale’s morning puttering fades, and then he sneaks out like it’s a Walk of Shame, to find a breakfast laid out on the table for him.

Somehow, it’s _that_ which always makes him falter.

After eating, he wanders around the upper portion of the flat and tries to clean as much as he can. The man bought him _clothes_ , the least he can do is look after the place. Earn his worth, _some_ way, even if it’s not his usual method of payment. It’s better on his knees, that’s for sure.

On day sixteen, he’s cleaned every single possible surface, and he’s got nothing left to do but loiter, and so he does. He keeps to himself, stays inside the room that’s been temporarily rented to him (for no money, which just reaffirms the fact that this Aziraphale has to be totally insane), and keeps himself busy.

He could be making money right now. _Should_ be making money right now. He could leave by the fire escape, but the weather has gotten colder, and he doesn’t feel comfortable stealing the kind man’s clothes only to return them with _fluids_ on it.

He’s in the middle of eating French Toast on the twenty first day when Aziraphale pops his head into the flat and ruins the routine Crowley’s been so careful to maintain.

“Oh! Wonderful, you’re awake!”

Crowley’s never heard someone be that pleased to see him before in his life, parents included.

He feels like a caged animal, wanting to back away and disappear into the shadows of the flat, but Aziraphale’s bright blue eyes keep him trained in a single spot. “Erm.”

“Would you mind helping me with the bookshop?”

The redhead opens his mouth to say some witty remark, or a biting comment. To maybe bring up the important fact that he is absolutely _shite_ at reading, and the last time he read an actual, physical book must’ve been _ages_ ago, but Aziraphale continues talking and his breath leaves him.

“I wouldn’t normally ask, I don’t want to bother you, and you of course, can say no, if you want to, but I’ve got to pop by the store for a moment, shouldn’t take too long, and I’m not sure when I’ll be back and I feel bad if I just _shut the shop down_ , especially since I keep such odd hours anyway, so—”

“Okay.”

Aziraphale pauses and then he smiles in a way that is far too blinding. “Wonderful! Well, I’ll just show you around the shop’s layout and then I’ll be off. Only for a bit, shouldn’t be more than half an hour.”

Crowley follows the man down the stairs and into the bookshop much the way a person walks, which is to say without much effort or thought put in from the performer at all. The bookshop is completely vacant, and so it’s easy to be guided around and shown the sections and the organization system. All the same, he can’t keep track of everything and the labels confuse him so when Aziraphale asks him if he’s understood, he nods and waves like a robot when Aziraphale gets his coat and tells him he’s gotta get “a wiggle on” and will be back soon.

The door closes.

Crowley blinks.

“Did he say ‘get a wiggle on’?” he asks no one in particular.

The bookshop is remarkably _Aziraphale_ , if that makes any sense. Filled with so many books, it seems overcrowded, but not in a suffocating way, more homely. The warmth from the fireplace is soothing, and it’s almost _classy._ Well, it probably _is_ classy. Crowley personally doesn’t find he’s in a good position to label anything as anything other than “trash” and “not trash”, given his lifestyle, but he imagines this is what people mean when they say “classy”.

He’s in the middle of running his fingers along the spine of some ancient tome when the bell above the door rings.

He’s about to greet Aziraphale when in steps a woman in thick glasses. She doesn’t say a thing to him, just walks through the shelves and begins looking around for herself as though she owns the place. Maybe she’s related to Aziraphale? Perhaps she’s a friend.

There’s something about her posture, about the way she walks, that’s intimidating so Crowley stays to the side for as long as he can before he feels too awkward to remain in the shadows any longer and makes his way to her.

“Can I help you?”

She turns to him sharply, her skirt swishing. “Oh!” she exclaims, and in the moment it takes him to register she’s American, she squints at him and frowns. “No, I don’t think you can. No offence meant. But I imagine you should want to help yourself, first.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t—”

“Never mind,” she cuts him off. “Forget I said anything. Just cause I can see the Aura doesn’t mean I need to comment on them.” She spins back to the shelves, leaving Crowley very confused. “I’m looking for a book of prophecy.”

“Like, divination?”

“Yes.” She frowns. “Well, no. Accurate prophecies, I mean. Not like, crystal balls and all that shit. _Real_ prophecies.”

“Right …”

“Oh, found something!” She pulls something from the shelf and examines it for a moment before nodding and striding towards the cash. “You going to ring me up?”

“Ah, right.”

Except Aziraphale never taught him how to work the cash.

The bell above the door rings again.

“So sorry, dear boy, took a bit longer than I thought it would— are you buying a book?”

The two look at Aziraphale, who is flushed in the cheeks and holding a bag with groceries in it. He looks adorable like that, and Crowley chides himself because the man has made his opinion on Crowley’s appearance and his _activities_ clear that first night.

“Um, yes, she,” Crowley nods to the girl.

“Anathema Device,” she introduces herself. “I want to purchase one of your books of prophecy.”

“What?”

The sound is unlike any Crowley’s ever heard from the light haired man. It sounds _panicked_. “No, you don’t want that! Not really!” Aziraphale says, rushing to her side. “Really, it’s rubbish! The book, I mean.”

“You don’t know which one I chose,” says Anathema Device suspiciously.

Aziraphale grabs the book from her hand and glances at the cover. “Ah yes, absolute tosh, as I thought. You were going to waste valuable money on this thing. Ha!” He places the book behind the counter and turns back to Anathema. “Well then, now that I’ve saved you such an obvious waste of time, I must apologize and do you one more good favour, by getting you to leave this establishment as quickly as possible—”

“But I was just—”

“Oh, no need to thank me, dear!”

Crowley watches the odd spectacle as Aziraphale pushes Anathema until she’s gently forced out the door. The man even puts up his “closed” sign, and then presses his back against the door and lets out a loud sigh.

“That was close.”

Crowley’s brow furrows. “She was a customer.”

“She was a menace, that’s what she was,” Aziraphale insists. “Honestly, as if I could ever sell a book of prophecy! It would _ruin_ my collection.”

“You just shoved her out the door. A paying customer, who wanted to buy one of your books. You just …” What kind of business model does the shop adhere to, if any? Though he is by no means a business expert, actively chasing away customers seems like bad practice.

“Listen to me, dear boy,” says Aziraphale, gripping Crowley by his shoulders. “Do not, and I cannot stress this enough, _do not_ ever sell a book.”

The redhead opens his mouth. To make an inquiry, to call Aziraphale absolutely batty, to insist they chase down the witchy American woman, but instead all he says is “why?”

Aziraphale lets go of him, and sighs as though it is a great hassle. “ _Because_ , this is not a bookshop, this is basically a _library_ , and it is my own personal collection. What kind of curator of books would I be if I just _gave them up_ to anyone walking by?”

“The shitty sort, I suppose.”

“Exactly.”

Crowley’s not quite sure if he understands this correctly. “If your bookshop functions fundamentally like a library, why not just make it a library?”

“Because that would mean letting _others_ touch my books.”

Crowley blinks.

Aziraphale LaCroix may, quite possibly, be short a marble.

“What’s the purpose of a room full of books if no one is going to read them?”

“ _I_ read them,” Aziraphale insists. “And it’s better I do it than anyone else. People don’t know how to treat paperbacks nowadays. It’s all electronic. It’s their loss, when they wistfully try to remember the smell of musty paper.”

“You sound like you’re six thousand years old.”

“I’m thirty, thank you.”

Crowley grins. Perhaps, just maybe, he’s found himself a friend in Mr. Aziraphale LaCroix, the mad bookshop keeper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS:  
> Prostitute Crowley: Some allusions to Crowley's job.


End file.
